


if you wanna be my lover

by asexuelf



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Autistic Travis Phelps (Sally Face), Awkwardness, Developing Friendships, Established Sal Fisher/Travis Phelps, Larry Johnson is A Good Friend, M/M, Pre-Friendship, Self-Esteem Issues, Sensitive Artist Larry Johnson (Sally Face), Trauma, Travis Joins The Sally Face Gang, Travis Phelps-centric, alien jokes, anger issues, because im autistic and i realized post-writing that he comes across adhd/autistic, catch the weirdly specific reference and get a prize, just kidding there's no prize, lots of travis being in love with sal, not like overtly because i did it by accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/asexuelf
Summary: Travis tries to make nice with Larry Johnson for Sal's sake, but it's not easy. For either of them.
Relationships: Larry Johnson & Travis Phelps, Sal Fisher/Travis Phelps
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	if you wanna be my lover

**Author's Note:**

> :D anothuh one! i don't know what it is about sally face fics that they just manifest when i sit down to write them, but i won't complain! hopefully y'all like it too 💖
> 
> this is predominantly sal/travis with travis & larry budding friendship, but it can be read as pre-relationships sal/travis/larry without needing to squint too hard. xD choose your own adventure
> 
> warnings are, i think: mild implied violence at the beginning, a liberal use of swears because travis is a bit edgier than i usually write him, annnnnd... that's it? oh, a tiny bit of suggestive humor.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! 💖

Larry Johnson is far from Travis' favorite person.

No, that right goes to Sally Face, the blue-eyed, blue-haired angel that swooped in and gave Travis something to live for, to change for. That right goes, undeniably, to Sal - which is why, if anyone else were to tell Travis he'd be spending an entire weekend with Larry fucking Johnson, they'd get a sore lip and a black eye to match, but Sal…

Sal gets a thin-lipped kiss and a sigh. Sal gets whatever he wants.

Sal gets Travis at Addison Apartments, feeling awkward as Hell and as stretched thin as he does claustrophobic. At least he didn't have to figure out the entertainment, like the single time he let Sal come over. No, instead, that chore fell on Larry.

Larry's activities for the day already blow. Literally _blow,_ like a fucking bomb going off.

The stereo's bass rattles through Travis' tightly-clenched teeth, the dark licks of the screeching guitar matched only by the agonized howling of the lead "singer".

Sal stops the rhythmic banging of his head, the wild toss of his hair, to shoot Travis a thumbs up.

Stiff as a board, Travis smiles back. He can barely contort his lips out of the wincing shape they're curled into. He can only hope it doesn't show how forced his smile is - or, at least, he _would_ be hoping, if he could think past the demonic sounds shaking Larry's room.

When the… _song_ ends, it leaves behind a ringing, like the echo of a knife's sharp blade reaching into his skull. Travis is reminded of the way ancient Egyptians would pull the brains out of pharaohs. Only, Travis is no pharaoh, and the hook is digging into his ears, not his nose. Although, if he had to choose...

"So?" Larry sounds like he's speaking from another room. Another plane of reality. "How was it? Is your mind blown?"

That's one way of putting it.

"Uh…" Travis pulls at his earlobe, cringing at the ache that throbs through his ear at the movement. "It's interesting. Not really my scene."

Sal paps Larry on the arm with the back of his hand. The smack is so gentle, it's almost more of a caress. "I _told_ you - start him with something more symphonic!"

Although Travis doesn't know how the Hell _that_ can become anything resembling a symphony's sounds, Larry seems to, because he rolls his eyes pretentiously and scoffs. "If he can't appreciate the greats, why should we show him small-time shit?"

"Don't be an elitist douche, dude." But the smile on his face can be heard even through the cotton filling Travis' skull. Sal is having a great time. Somehow.

Larry laughs. "Okay, okay. This one _is_ classic, though. Admit it."

"Yeah, okay. It's quintessential. I'd never deny that. Trav?"

Oh, God. They're looking at him again.

"Did you like the song, morning star?"

There's no worse feeling than the sudden realization that all eyes are on him. He fumbles for something to say. "Uh… Well, I can kind of see the appeal. It sounds- angry."

Larry laughs again, this time noticeably more reserved. "Yeah, that's definitely one of its best traits. Lots of sad shit too, or shit to pump you up, if you're in the mood for it. Here, I'll play something a little more uplifting."

"Uh, yeah. Go ahead."

It's not much better than the last, but… Larry is smiling. Sal looks relaxed in a way he so rarely is. So… Maybe Travis can bite his tongue and hunker down for now. Maybe after a while, he might even possibly begin to almost tolerate it. And then, they'll move on to something else.

The rest of the weekend can't possibly be this bad, right?

-

The chalky brick of paint has well-past stained his fingers, leaving the usually lighter fingerpads of his brown hand a vibrant purple. It's… _sticky_ , almost, in a not-quite powdery way, and he wrinkles his nose against his fight to keep his face smooth as he attempts to drag the flat edge of the oil pastel stick across the canvas.

"Good!" says Larry. "That's great, man. When we rub this out, it's gonna look so cool."

Rub it… out? Despite himself, Travis blushes, berating himself for letting his mind fall into the gutter like that. The heat of his cheeks, his ears, is hard to think through though, so he focuses on Larry's other words. The important part is that apparently, somehow, Travis is doing something right. Or Larry is just trying to keep the peace, same as him, and it's just lip-service.

Not that Travis can tell any difference. He has no idea what he's supposed to be doing, let alone how to do it right. For all he knows, he's two strokes away from a masterpiece.

On the stool beside him, Sal sits with his own canvas, the cool white paper lying down flat so his watercolors don't run.

Travis blinks widely at the painting, an array of watery blues and strong violets, all surrounding swirling black lines that Sal had made with a waterproof ink pen. "Wow! That looks great!"

It's the same scene Travis is supposed to be drawing, only Sal's doesn't look like shit. The light of the wide yellow moon in the center of the painting leaves a reflection on the deep blue water it hangs above - unlike Travis', which kind of looks like an egg on top of another egg, both of which are melting into an off-color sidewalk. Granted, the tools used are different, and so must be the execution, but he still finds his face growing hot in embarrassment.

It's not Sal's fault that he's feeling like this. It's just in Sal's nature to be amazing like that. He barely even does it on purpose.

It isn't Larry's fault either, of course, but Travis' shit brain always needs someone to point fingers at, so Travis gets kind of pissed at him anyways. Was this all just some ploy to make him look like some talentless toddler in front of Sal? Did Larry set this up just to make him feel like wet garbage?

"I like yours too, Travis," Sal says sweetly, interrupting his venom to press a hand to his arm. "It's looking just right so far."

Travis' ears burn. Is it better or worse that he can't tell if they're lying?

He hopes they finish painting soon.

-

 _Click-click-clack, click-click-clack._ The small grey controllers in Sal and Larry's hands seem to protest loudly at the ferocity of their button-mashing, Travis' more reserved tapping almost silent in comparison. The blue light of the T.V. shining in the dark makes Travis' eyes burn.

The other boys laugh, bright and joyful. Travis is too busy trying to decipher the colorful shapes on the screen to ask them what's so funny.

It shouldn't be this hard. Sal said this is an easier game, perfect for beginners, so why can't he make his character jump from one platform to the next - or even figure out if the character he's looking at is the one he's controlling?

Another GAME OVER screen suddenly flashes, assaulting his eyes. Travis has no idea why or how they got a game over, but he hopes this being the seventh in a row will convince the boys to do something else.

Instead, Larry restarts - _is it Larry doing that? did he press a button?_ \- and leans back against his beanbag in visible irritation.

"Dude, really?" he grips. "Again?"

Sal elbows him hard enough that Larry's face convulses in pain. Travis isn't surprised; his man's got sharp elbows.

Still, it makes Travis feel like shit.

"I think you're doing good, Travis," Sal tries. "I can show you the jump button again if you like?"

His voice is as gentle as it's been all day, maybe gentler, and while normally Travis melts like icecream turning in the microwave at that sweet, low rumble, right now he's kind of angry. It tastes like bile, hot and bubbling in his chest and throat, brighter behind his eyes than the flashing colors in front of him.

"Yeah, you're doing good for a beginner," Larry amends, rubbing at his new bruise. "The rest just takes practice, right?"

Travis scowls - really, truly scowls. After doing so much _work_ to keep his expression clear and polite today, it's freeing to know he just looks _pissed._ Like a feral animal. Like a biting dog.

People don't fuck with a biting dog. Travis learned that early.

Sal's eyes are hidden in the shadows of his mask, but he sounds sad. "Trav…"

"Man, I'm sorry-"

"No," Travis interrupts. It feels good. "Don't even fucking sweat, alright? This was stupid to begin with."

And then he does what he's wanted to do _all fucking day_ and storms out of Larry's room, stomping as much as he wants because it's the fucking basement, who's he gonna bother? The worms?

He stews the whole elevator ride up, grinding his teeth in that way Sal hates. When he realizes, he does it deliberately, but then he makes it to the fourth floor and feels like a big baby. He just wants to cuddle in Sal's bed, occasionally interrupted by Henry Fisher's distant sneeze.

Mr. Fisher's not here today. It's an empty apartment and Travis has a key, so he lets himself in and rushes to Sal's bed. His angel might not be here for a snuggle, but Travis still throws himself onto the plain comforter with gusto. Even if he can't be music-savy, artistically inclined, or even coordinated enough to push some fucking buttons in the right order, at least he can still do a perfect belly-flop onto a bed.

Gizmo gives a little _mrrp_ beside him, surprising him.

"Oh. Hey, little man," he coos. Gizmo is _way_ better company than any of Sally Face's other friends. "Glad I didn't squish you, big kitty. Did I just wake you up?"

Gizmo is unusually chatty with Travis, but he sure as Hell doesn't mind. He could listen to this cat's 'meow's forever. He actually would, he thinks, as long as it meant he never had to use oil pastels ever again.

Instead, he spends probably all of five or ten minutes doing it. He'd have spent longer, but suddenly the bedroom door opens, scratching quietly against the carpet in that way all of Addison's doors do. Like the doors were built first and the carpet was an after-thought, poorly designed to be taller than the doors allowed.

"Sal," he sighs. If he sounds whiny, then fine. That just means he'll get longer kisses. "I'm sorry, angel, but I don't want-"

It isn't Sal. Travis rolls over to see Larry standing in the doorway, all long hair and rumpled band tee.

"Uh," he responds.

Travis puffs up in embarrassment, hackles raising like a startled cat as he jumps to a sitting position. "Don't you fucking judge me, Johnson! Why are you in Sally Face's room?"

"Why are _you_ in his _bed_ with your _shoes_ on?" Something mirroring Travis' anger and fear plays across Larry's sharp features, but then he closest his eyes and sighs. "Okay, shit. Give me a minute."

Travis tries to remember what Sal said about patience not as a virtue, but as an action of inaction. Just exist. Just _exist._

With a breath so deep it makes his lungs ache, Travis waits.

Finally, after a few more breaths, Larry collects himself and enters the room. They sit side by side awkwardly, the space between them large enough to fit a whole other person. A Sally Face. Travis wonders where Sal is right now. Is he still in the basement, waiting, miserable that Travis can't play nice for _one_ weekend? Or is he in the living room, waiting for Larry to say his piece so he can tell Travis to go home?

"I'm sorry."

Travis blinks in shock, then scrunches his face in confusion. "Why?"

"Don't sound so pissed that I'm apologizing." Larry laughs, then coughs. "Okay… So, we didn't really end tonight victoriously hand-in-hand like I planned. I'm mostly to blame, I think."

Travis doesn't speak. He's having a hard time processing - but that's okay, because Larry isn't finished.

"I chose stuff I thought all three of us could enjoy," he explains, looking sheepish. "But I was really only thinking of me and Sal. I didn't bother asking what you were into, because I didn't give a shit."

Travis blushes at having been read so easily, but still glares. "Yeah, that sucks. I like trying new things, believe it or not, but you guys are way better than me at this stuff. It's not fun to look like an idiot."

"Yeah, I realized as much." Larry turns his face away in something like apology, then looks back at Travis a little too head-on for either of their comfort. "It really didn't occur to me until like, you stormed out. I'm just so used to Sal, you know? Sal loves sucking at stuff."

"Everybody starts somewhere, _blah blah blah,_ growth mindset…" Without his meaning to, Travis' voice grows fond. Affectionate. "Christ, what a dork."

They laugh together. There's still a Sal-sized space between them, but the room doesn't feel as big anymore, or as cramped.

"Yeah, see, you get it." Larry sighs. "We're all kind of like that though. Watching yourself get better at something… It's really fulfilling. I mean, Ash's first photographs back in the day were so shaky, but now they look professional. Sal used to be even worse at the guitar."

Travis can't hold back a startled laugh. "Is that possible?"

"Apparently! The only one that might not fit the bill is Todd, but I don't think he was born holding a three-quarter pigmy flange, so…"

"You don't _think._ But can you prove he wasn't?"

Larry snorts behind his fist. "I guess not. Todd's a special case. He's so smart, sometimes I wonder if he's part alien or something."

"He _is_ a little too into UFOs…" Travis jokes. Then he bites the inside of his mouth and sighs. "I guess I was pretty shit at writing when I first started."

"Whoa! Dude, you write?"

Travis' eyes grow wide and the small hints of smiling drop from his face. He feels too visible. "Um. Yeah, I guess."

"That's so cool. That's one of the only arts we're missing in our group, you know? Maple bakes, Chug knits… But no one writes."

"Oh. That's kind of cool, that everybody has their own thing."

"Yeah, man. And you've got yours too." Larry cuffs him playfully on the shoulder. "Tell me what kind of stuff you like to write."

"Poetry, sometimes." He swallows around his embarrassment. Sal and his friends are the weird, black-clad alternative kids in Nockfell… They probably don't care if Travis' stupid hobby is too emo. "Mostly, though, I like to journal. It helps me make sense of my feelings, you know?"

He expects a snide remark or a joke, something like, _you gonna write about this later?_ , but surprisingly, Larry nods. It's so enthusiastic, he almost looks like he's head-banging again.

"Yeah, man," he says. "I do. That's why I paint."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So… Maybe you could show me how to translate that into words on a page?" And then Larry is grinning, toothy and bright. "I must suck at first, though. Hope that's okay."

Travis scoffs. "Have you ever _read_ poetry? It all sucks. That's what makes it so fun to write."

And then he's smiling too, though not quite as wide as Larry's. It's more a tilted smirk than anything happy. Still, it's a smile. It's a start.

"I think you might like it, though, if you're being for real. And if you're not sick of me yet."

"Phelps, I have _been_ sick of you. Sal likes you though, so, you know what they say. 'The boyfriend of my bro is my friend', or whatever."

That word - _boyfriend_ \- rings loud in his ears. Almost as loud as heavy metal. "Yeah. Uh, you too."

"Come on. Let's head back to my place so you can teach us devil-worshipping heathens how to read."

The sound that leaves Travis is gleeful and mean. "I'll do my best," he says honestly. "We might even get you rhyming by Sunday."

And so they leave Sal's apartment together, almost friends. 

_Soon-to-be friends_ , Travis thinks. _Maybe we'll even do a collaborative piece one day._

The thought is so unsettling, it chases Travis faster down the hall, even faster than Larry's long legs can carry him. With his skin crawling like this, he needs Sal beside him to cope.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading 💖 don't be afraid to drop a comment~


End file.
